


Just Let Me

by HelloAmHere



Series: Just Let Me [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alpha Harry, Alpha/Beta/Omega Dynamics, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Banter, First Time, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, M/M, Omega Louis, Oral Sex, Pining, So much comfort, The importance of communication, boys taking care of each other, guest star: the city of LA which is a place I love, the annoyingness of emotions, the best sex is sex with jokes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-03
Updated: 2017-08-04
Packaged: 2018-12-10 16:18:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 14,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11695350
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HelloAmHere/pseuds/HelloAmHere
Summary: The party was going well. So well, Niall had already sworn undying love to one multi-tiered chocolate cake, two friendly corgi-poodle mixes, Zayn’s hair, and the entire population of Los Angeles. So well, Zayn had only laughed and ruffled Niall’s hair and not even twitched towards a cigarette. So well, nearly everyone had spilled far past the boundaries of the night’s original plans, extracting bottles of vodka from the cabinets and losing a lot of clothes. Harry had proclaimed that he was finally going to throw a small and very grownup dinner party and of course here they were three hours later, fifty people half-naked in the pool. Soon to be full-naked, if Louis had to guess. Everybody in LA loved a heated pool. Everybody loved Harry.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> What are we even doing here? This thing floated into my head, well, something like "what if a/b/o, but with consent? what if a/b/o, but less biological determinism?" My version of the trope is (hopefully obviously) a lot more lightweight than some universes, doesn't drive personalities or cause people to lose their minds, but does include bdsm-like omega space and some physiology around touch deprivation. What do you do with that when you're a too-stubborn and too-rich twenty-something trying to figure out what you want? Make a right mess, that's what. 
> 
> Comments loved!
> 
> Listening to:  
> Stoned on You, Don’t You Know, by Jaymes Young (really, this whole album is the theme for this story)  
> Be My Girl, by Wave & Rome  
> Live in the Moment, by Portugal. The Man

The party was going well. So well, Niall had already sworn undying love to one multi-tiered chocolate cake, two friendly corgi-poodle mixes, Zayn’s hair, and the entire population of Los Angeles. So well, Zayn had only laughed and ruffled Niall’s hair and not even twitched towards a cigarette. So well, nearly everyone had spilled far past the boundaries of the night’s original plans, extracting bottles of vodka from the cabinets and losing a lot of clothes. Harry had proclaimed that he was finally going to throw a small and very grownup  _ dinner party  _ and of course here they were three hours later, fifty people half-naked in the pool. Soon to be full-naked, if Louis had to guess. Everybody in LA loved a heated pool. Everybody loved Harry.

Louis had to admit that he also liked pools, and Harry, well. But tonight Louis was sitting on the edge of the kitchen balcony (the lesser balcony, but better than the greater in that you could kick your feet through the balcony columns and look out towards the expansive backyard instead of the front gates), not in the pool, and sadly, not naked. Earlier in the evening he’d felt good, great even, but between then and now he’d ended up sitting alone with a beer and a sneaking suspicion that the fingers holding the beer were shaking. Louis refused to look down and confirm it. Instead, he kicked his feet out and back, hitting his heels into the satisfying thick planks of the absurd kitchen balcony.

He’d made great fun of the house, like he made great fun of everything that Harry did in LA, even while he came over and skateboarded down the wide hallways and played the several pianos (best one, the white living room grand, extremely Brian Wilson, and Louis had left covert patches of fingerprints on the gleaming surface underneath, where the housecleaners wouldn’t find them). Out of all the _Harry_ things that Harry did, getting a temporary mansion for the express purpose of “having friends over” during their long recording summer was not the worst. But Louis still felt compelled to lob comments about the house that ran, biting and jagged, like an undercurrent of the last two months. Maybe it was because despite all of Harry’s _casual rockstar_ and _Hollywood playboy,_ there was just something so alpha about it, like Harry needed a proper domestic space that he owned and he wanted it to be big enough for everybody and he wanted to prowl around in it, showing up at people’s elbows with food and water and grand pianos.

On the lawn somebody was shrieking big, uninhibited shrieks of laughter at a joke Louis couldn’t hear. There were speakers out by the pool, waterproof and teal-blue, playing Harry’s party playlist which he had ready to go despite all the talk of dinner parties. From his perch on the balcony Louis could only hear the bass, but he bet he knew which song it was. Maybe everything else about Harry had changed, but party music dies hard, and they’d had a long time to share that. Maybe someday Louis would go to one of these things without having xray vision into every move that Harry made. He could dream.

“Yo, Louis,” Liam called, sauntering over to the balcony edge to stand over Louis.

“Yo Liam,” Louis said, tilting his head back to look up, “You look like a big angel tonight.” Liam twinkled down at him, a nice jaw and nice teeth framed in a clean white t-shirt.

“You’re a tiny demon,” Liam said affectionately, “But I wondered where you got off to when the cake came out and I didn’t hear you yelling at Harry for how enormous it was.”

“I’m shocked and appalled,” Louis said, “I’m shocked because you know I think cake is awesome and I’m appalled that you came all the way out here and you aren’t handing me a piece right now.”

“I’ve been working out too hard for cake,” Liam said, “Can’t let this pre-album suffering go to waste. I’m gonna join the pool party instead. You coming?”

At the pool, the source of the shrieking had been effectively dunked, and even more clothes were coming off. It was Niall, obviously. Louis kicked his feet some more.

“Not really feeling a swim,” Louis said. That was putting it mildly, because what Louis was  _ feeling  _ was a prickling underneath his skin that threatened his usual self-control, the desire to leap off this balcony shrieking like Niall, the itch to reach his arms up in the air and say  _ come get me, somebody, I’m all out of everything that keeps me going, help.  _ Louis had a lot of practice not doing that, though, so he didn’t.  

Liam nodded, and he looked thoughtful, leaning against the balcony rail and looking down on Louis. Over the past year or so their friendship had gotten a little deeper, Louis thought, maybe in response to the rift from Harry. When a fissure opens up the ground, it has to contract somewhere else.

“You doing ok there, Tommo?” Liam asked. Louis raised his beer in a loose cheers and took a healthy gulp.

“Never better,” he said, tapping at Liam’s sculpted calf muscle with the edge of the bottle, “Go give the poor ladies some primo One Direction to appreciate in this wasteland, all they've had to look at are Harry and Niall.”

“All right then,” Liam said, ever genial, “But come with, eh?”

Zayn wandered up behind them to wrap his chin over Liam’s shoulder, because there were no two Alphas more joined at the hip these two, whether or not they were simultaneously delighting a cadre of Harry’s model houseguests. Frankly, it was a bit sickening despite how much Louis loved them together, loved the way that they proved all naysayers and stereotypers wrong.

“Is Louis ignoring the party in favor of a mope?” Zayn asked. Louis cut him a glare.

“When do I ever mope?” Louis demanded.

“Never,” Liam said, while Zayn simply snorted and pulled at his own beer. Louis could usually count on  _ Zayn  _ to ignore emotions in favor of cigarettes and vice, so this was nothing short of betrayal.

“You’ve been moping all summer,” Zayn said, and the way his fingers traced lightly up Liam’s arm showed that he was already a little drunk.

“No he hasn’t,” Liam said, “Just ignore Zayn, he’s drunk.”

“Has,” Zayn said.

“Calumny,” Louis said, polishing off his beer, mentally pulling the threads of his stupid, buzzing feelings closer and monitoring Zayn’s face as he did so. Liam cared, but Zayn was perceptive, and somewhere between the dinner and this balcony, Louis had gone further towards the deep end of omega than he cared to admit. But if he left now, the boys would wonder, and maybe somebody would say something to _Harry_.

“Remember the last party? Was that moping?” Liam asked, patting at Zayn’s cheek. Fair point, because at Harry’s last party Louis had broken about twenty glasses and a cabinet in an early morning jousting match where the lances were hockey sticks. Why did Harry have hockey sticks? Some questions had no answer.

“Louis’ form of moping is destruction,” Zayn said, looking out towards the pool. “It's very complicated.”

“You’re just jealous I’ve been nailing my album solos,” Louis said. Zayn reached down to ruffle Louis’ hair with the tips of his fingers, and Louis absolutely, definitely, for sure did not close his eyes.

“Moping does make for better music,” Zayn said earnestly, “You know? I’ve been thinking we’re hitting a new depth with this one. I appreciate all the moping you’ve been doing for the team, Louis. Your writing has been killer.”

“Um, fuck you?” Louis said, standing up so fast he nearly got a head rush, “I never mope. I outsource my moping to others. I’m a very rich person, Zayn, and I’m going to go swimming now.”

“Yes!” Liam said, and Zayn gave up a drunken smile, rare and lovely, that made Louis wonder if the needling had just been to make Liam happy by getting all his boys together at the pool. Manipulative sod. Liam wrapped his arm around Zayn’s waist to balance him against the balcony.  

Louis ignored the thrumming in his ears and ran down the lawn, cool grass tickling the soles of his bare feet. It was good to be in his body, be shocked back into the physicality of it. It helped.

Louis saw Harry resolve out of the party first, of course, clustered with a group of guests by the speakers with a phone in his hand. He wandered up because the only other non-pool alternative was joining Niall and the supermodels on the hot tub side and Niall looked like he was doing fine on his own, plus it would've been weird not to, like he was avoiding Harry, which he never did, of course. Harry was switching tracks, letting one play for five or ten seconds before giving a slow shake of his head and clicking forward. It was infuriating.

“This party needs an older vibe, tired of this pop stuff,” Harry said to no one and everyone, throwing that smile around. Louis rolled his eyes, stepped away from the edge of the group and seized a shockingly still-full bottle of vodka.

“Bet you I can take a shot while jumping in the pool,” Louis announced. Harry looked at him then, maybe for the first time that night. A jazz number came on that Louis recognized as the one that Harry liked to play over the tourbus speakers on a saturday drive, despite Niall’s complaints that jazz was boring, and Louis’ more articulate criticism that the current jazz scene was an elitist and exclusionary appropriation that mirrored American oppressions. Harry had actually listened to that, but Harry’s version of listening had been to roll down onto the couch and put his head in Louis’ lap and while Louis had stuttered to a stop, the music kept going.

“But do you need to,” Harry wondered, looking back down at his phone, “When you and the bottle are already here together on dry land?”

Some model giggled. Some model was  _ always  _ giggling. Louis cleared his throat and stood higher on the balls of his feet. The problem with Harry’s parties was definitely all the tall people.

“Always underestimates me, this one,” he said at large. “Never has any faith.” Harry’s smile fell a little, which gave Louis a small vicious joy, because he was horrible.

Louis twirled towards the pool and took a good squint at it. Bunch of freaking Alphas crowding up the space,  _ obviously,  _ would it kill LA to let any kind of status balance into its ranks? Louis did his best to represent, you know, but even he had to sleep occasionally.

“Move aside, babes,” he yelled grandly, and Niall, with his unerring radar for bad ideas, waved encouragement from the other side of the pool.

Louis took a running leap, flung the bottle into his mouth as he did, and it clashed painfully with his teeth but he successfully gulped down a few shots as he plunged down. Water closed over Louis’ head and for a second he choked, mouth full of vodka, nose full of chlorine. But then the heated pool wrapped him inside and out, lovely. Louis felt it carry him down, let his limbs drift out and his body sink. Outside was the real world with its nonsense mansions, people he didn’t want, and people he couldn’t stop wanting. Here it was suddenly all just blurred noise and the cascading pressure from all the bodies moving around the edge. Louis felt the bottom of the pool press gently up into his feet, alcohol warm the his stomach. It was nice.  

When Louis broke the surface, neck of the vodka bottle triumphantly in his mouth, four or five of the partiers swam over to share.  

“Nice jump,” said a girl who’s been at Harry’s second to last party, the one that ended up in a street race. One particularly beautiful guy -- Nyle, Louis remembered, the one from the tv shows -- signed agreement and, when Louis shrugged, he grinned and winked, which was rather bold but he was pretty, so. By now most of Harry's regulars had learned to keep a courteous couple feet between themselves and One Direction’s notoriously prickly omega. Louis was the rabble rouser of One Direction, and you could drift into his orbit to grab some associative energy, but Louis made sure that that was all. They passed the bottle around, and Louis drank deeper than he needed to: it felt crowded, then, and too loud.

Louis glanced out of the pool, but Harry was turned away and swaying happily in a dance circle of admirers by the speakers. Louis pushed his way out of the crowd, who went drunkenly and readily back to each other, and paddled to the side of the pool and hacked a bit of vodka-pool-spit onto the cream border.

“Lovely, mate, ten of ten,” said Niall, sitting down in his boxers to put his feet in the pool. Louis wrinkled his nose and held the bottle up.

“Split the last with me,” he commanded. Niall grinned and took a pull, and then spat it out over Louis’ head.

“Gross,” Louis said.

“Get a fresh one, wanker,” Niall said, “This is half water now. You’ve just spiked Harry’s pool!”

Louis shrugged. “Well  _ I _ got a good couple shots in me,” he said, and gripped the side of the pool more tightly. His feet had slowed their kick for some reason, and the water didn’t feel quite as warm. Niall’s eyes were on him.

“A couple shots on top of everything earlier, huh,” Niall said, which was rich, coming from him. “Let’s get you out then,” Niall said, leaning over and gripping Louis by the arms. “Oy, Zayn, a little Alpha lift?”

“Ugh,” Louis said, but could offer no resistance as Zayn ambled over and lifted him easily out of the water. Louis felt his head roll back a little bit and in his chest, something tangled and ominous. Zayn set him gently down poolside.

“Any towels?” Niall asked, looking around. Zayn shrugged, still drunk, and all the towels Louis could see were wrapped around the mostly-naked women, and some men, who were doing their best to wrap around Harry on the patio dance floor. The water was decidedly not warm anymore and Louis belatedly realized that being soaked through all of his clothes was not going to improve anything when it came to feeling vulnerable, fragile even, all the worst things to feel right here and right now.

“I’m going, getting out of the cold,” Louis said abruptly, firmly, and Niall gave him a worried look but Zayn merely nodded, bless his self-possessed heart. Zayn was the kind of guy to leave you alone when you wanted, and Louis definitely wanted. Harry was swaying on the floor feet away, and hadn’t even looked around.

Louis found his way back into the house in a blur. Had Harry’s house always felt so cavernous? Did anybody really need a house this big? Louis felt like he was dwarfed and trespassing, even though that was ridiculous. Harry had all kinds of people in and out of his house all the time, and no matter how strained things had felt, surely Louis still counted.

Through the glazed kitchen window, Louis stared out at the pool and the crowd of strangers. He couldn’t see Harry’s tall, curly hair, although if he were at the center of all the bodies in the pool, there was no telling. Either way, Louis was safe. Harry’s parties went for hours, they went all night and into the next day, no one would come back, they’d just lie on the grass and have long and careless makeouts because they  _ could,  _ everybody else could do all that without feeling like their hearts were going to be ripped from their chests. Louis opened the kitchen door and shuffled back onto the balcony despite the way the night air made the wet clothes drip ice down his back.

Normally, on a night like this Louis would stash himself at home with tv and headphones and maybe some self-soothing over-the-counter meds procured in the deepest secrecy by his excellent bodyguard. It was never pleasant--it was never  _ enough _ \--but it would pass after a bad night, if you could let it all go for a while, drop by yourself, maybe. Louis should’ve realized earlier, with the shaking and the drifting in and out on the balcony and all the sensitivity to touch, but the touch deprivation hadn’t hit this hard in a long time. He’d been pushing so hard to write and record, they’d all been feeling strained this summer, and most of all Louis had lost the casual intimacy of the tour bus that he’d come to depend on, and none of it was enough. Louis shouldn’t have even come, but despite the fact that they hadn’t had a normal conversation in months, Louis couldn’t keep himself away when Harry threw a god-damn party.

Louis sat down on the balcony and pressed his back into the external wall of the house and counted the stars at the corner of his eyes. So it was really rushing in, then, the omega instincts that he could usually ignore. Louis felt it like an ache in every joint, and he was shivering nonstop, now. Could it be that bad, just letting a it out for a bit? Everybody was so far away, nobody could possibly feel it at this distance, just a distant omega drop far away and drowned in all the sharp, spiky, predatory Alpha party feelings circling the pool. It had been  _ so  _ long since he’d actually let the omega side loose to prowl, so many weeks and months of feeling it clawing from the inside.

Louis was feeling worse. Shit, now that he’d considered letting it out, Louis was feeling  _ everything _ . Louis felt the emotions rolling off in waves, and on top of all of that, he was scared. It had been a long time--years, maybe?--since it had felt like this, so strong, like it was crackling up through his skin and seeping out of his pores, like he was just a paper-thin frame wrapped ineffectively around emotion _.  _ It filled the air around his body in big, primal pulses: sadness and loneliness and  _ need.  _ The house and the grass and the sky blurred, and spun.

Louis dropped his face to his knees and breathed through his nose. He’d only meant to let the damn feelings out for a second, but they were roaring in his ears. He curled in as tightly as he could, pulling his knees into his chest and wrapping his arms around them. Louis rubbed his hands up and down his legs, unable to get dry or warm. In the back of his mind, Louis thought sourly that this was much like a self-cuddle, the dumbass self-soothing that his parents would have hated. He pulled at his legs even more tightly, desperate for touch. The balcony felt like a cliff’s edge, cold air pushing him inevitably closer to the edge even though he knew he wasn’t moving.  _ Don’t drop,  _ Louis thought miserably,  _ don’t fall. _

“Hey, I was looking for you,” Harry said. Louis lurched sideways, scrambled for purchase on the slippery balcony floor. Harry was standing in the doorway from the kitchen, just a silhouette backlit by the light, water droplets shining in his hair.

“Did I break your pool?” Louis said, aiming for jovial and ending up somewhere closer to hostile. How did that always happen? The balcony steadied, thankfully, and Louis leaned against the wall. Casually, not weakly.

Harry just smiled and stepped onto the balcony, but there was something in his face that made Louis twitch.

“Of course not,” Harry said, “Plus it’s not even my favorite pool.” Louis barked a real laugh at that.

“Saw you disappear,” Harry said, and Louis’ heart clenched, “Wanted to check up.” Harry made a little bit of a face, even ducked his head a bit, probably because he knew that Louis hated it when Harry did this kind of thing, so  _ Alpha. _

“Don’t I look like I’m having fun?” Louis asked, mustering his strength to stand up with his arms spread out, shaking the hair out of his eyes. Fuck, but that only increased the dizziness plinking in the back of his head. He smothered it with a smile, the bright and toothy and not-really-happy smile that usually sent Harry packing back to, well, to whoever wasn’t Louis out there.

“No, you don’t,” Harry said softly, and Louis wasn’t expecting  _ that,  _ nor how Harry’s stupidly beautiful eyes were quizzical in a way that meant trouble, like  _ I’m going to take this seriously  _ trouble, like  _ I’m the only one who sees through your bullshit  _ trouble. Louis swallowed.

“I felt you,” Harry said, rolling his shoulders under his floral print tank top like he was uncomfortable, or trying to gesture towards something that was intangible. Louis took a step back, dropped his arms. Harry took a step forward.

“Don’t be a prick,” Louis said automatically, but he couldn’t put any bite in it. Damn, but the world was blurry, and Louis would be a hell of a lot better at this if Harry were further away, if Harry weren’t pulling at him like a magnet, a lot harder to ignore when you’re too many shots deep into an omega drop. But Harry couldn’t have meant that for real, could he? Nobody could have, not from so far away and not in such a mess of other, stronger senses.

“You’re imagining,” Louis said, quelling his runaway internal monologue with a firm hand. “Just a bit drunk. And while I know people love to have fantasies about me,”

“I felt you,” Harry repeated, and he sounded more certain and more firm and that was terrible, because  _ Louis  _ was supposed to be the one who was in charge of this situation, but there was a glint in Harry’s eye that was distracting. Plus, the edges of Louis’ vision had a strange, flickering quality that wasn’t pleasant, and his knees shook. All in all, he’d seen better nights.

“Oh sure,” Louis spat, “That superhero Alpha shit, yeah, Hazza?”

Harry’s face darkened, but he wasn’t taking the bait this time. Hell Louis wasn’t even taking the bait, the roil of heavy longing all around him in the traitorous air. Scraps of feelings were still spilling out from his pulse points, hammering away at all of his dignity. He blinked against it, turned to the door and to stumble around Harry. Harry stepped into his path.

“For once,” Harry said, “Be honest with me. What’s going on? You’re shivering, Lou, come on,”

“Well,” Louis said, stepping back again, dodging Harry’s outstretched arm that was suddenly  _ there _ , “Lovely party, sorry to call it an early night, better luck with the chaos next time. Should call a driver, wouldn’t be good to get emotions all over your nice clothes.”

“I’ve got plenty of clothes,” Harry said, not moving, “Are you sure you’re good to leave? You’re drenched.”

“Some asshole,” Louis said pointedly, “Turned a perfectly fine dinner party into a pool party.” And he blinked again, and started pitching forward, the balcony deck rushing at his face, but between one blink and the next Harry had stepped forward to wrap one long arm around his waist, and it was all over.

Louis felt the rush of more than just drunken vertigo and Harry must have felt it too, because he tightened his hold and put the other hand on Louis’ shoulder. Louis was pulled into Harry’s chest and felt it down his spine like plunging back into the pool, but warm and buoyant this time:  _ touch me, touch me _ . Harry smelled like smoky vanilla musk and wheat beer and faintly of chlorine, and now Louis was shivering too much to hide anything.

“ _ Louis,”  _ Harry said in a voice that dropped half an octave, “Fuck, Louis. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Admit defeat? Never,” Louis mumbled, face into Harry’s chest. He felt his fingers gather up the back of Harry’s shirt, the betraying little fuckers. It was better and worse than he’d ever imagined, being held by Harry, who was now the one constant center in an otherwise vanishing universe. Harry swung his arm around the back of Louis’ knees and swept him easily into a full carry.

“You’re not at war, Lou,” Harry said, softly and slowly, but despite the gentleness Louis could feel the tension in Harry’s muscles at every point they connected, and filed it away for later, when his brain turned back on. Right now Louis couldn’t do anything about it, or about his body was curling compulsively into Harry’s like he couldn’t get close enough. Harry turned his back on the party, walked through the kitchen door, and carried Louis inside.


	2. Chapter 2

Harry’s bedroom was lovely. Even omega space couldn’t submerge Louis’ natural curiosity, so despite the vagueness of the world, Louis got the impression of soft, off-white lighting and space, two big open plan rooms with high ceilings and a shocking lack of the bizarre art that Louis might have expected based on the downstairs decor. Just this last tour, Harry had wandered into a boutique in eastern Europe and bought a seven-foot canvas in a forty-pound frame, nothing more special than a wash of colors and shadows as far as Louis could see. It needed special screws and could only be mounted with a cleat and studs, and for some reason it, too, had made its way to LA with the band.

Up here, though, there was only a small music area with a few guitars, a tv offset next to a pair of french windows, a thick red couch, several bookshelves. Every texture seemed heightened in Louis’ perception, like he was sinking into the couch cushions when he saw them, like he felt the flutter of the sheer curtains across his face. Louis was still shivering, even though he was out of the wind and the chill, but he didn’t feel warm.

“Ok, into something warm,” Harry said, “Maybe a shower?”

Louis bared his teeth, which was a stupid way to communicate, but the corner of Harry’s mouth kicked up anyway.

“No, enough water,” Harry agreed, “Almost thought you were trying to drown out there, Louis. Made my heart stop or something.” He deposited Louis into the corner of the couch, and traced a hand over the edge of Louis’ face so quickly that Louis didn’t even have time to react, just looked up at him.

“Right back,” Harry promised. Louis was a functioning, independent person, he was pretty sure, and already he felt a little clearer, Harry’s contact soothing back the worst of the depri, but he still felt a desperate flash of _stay_ and a rising _whimper_ when Harry turned away to the massive closet. Louis swallowed it down, instead. Oh, this was going to be bad, wasn’t it. This was already bad.

Harry came back with armfuls of grey fabric. “Put something dry on,” he said firmly.

Harry turned away courteously as Louis slowly, painstakingly peeled off his wet clothes and left them in a heap in front of the couch for future people to worry about. He picked a soft long-sleeved waffle shirt and an even softer pair of sweatpants out of the pile that Harry had brought out. These were new since the tour, Louis noticed. Harry always did like to get new clothes along with new houses. Harry stood with his  arms crossed looking out the bedroom windows, long back muscles tense under the thin tank top. Louis could just catch his reflection as an outline in the glass.

“Jesus, Lou,” Harry said, so quiet that Louis wasn’t even sure it was meant to be heard, “Why would you let it get this way?”

Louis made a noise or said something, he wasn’t sure, but Harry turned back around and stomped towards the couch. Harry knelt in front of Louis on the floor and he rested one hand on each of Louis’ knees. It should have looked ridiculous except that Harry looked deadly serious.

“You are so, completely fucked,” Harry said, and he almost sounded mad except that Louis knew, somehow, that he wasn’t. He traced Louis’ cheek with the back of a finger and Louis sucked in some air involuntarily, and Harry dropped his hand back down.

“Touch starved, yeah? I’ve never felt--I want to hold you right now, it’s all I can do to stop myself.” Harry ran a hand through his long hair, shaking it out of the way. Louis focused on a curl so he wouldn’t have to look Harry in the eyes, wouldn’t have to see disappointment rising up to meet him. He’d tried so hard, and he’d still failed, still managed to drag Harry into his mess.

“I’m sorry,” Louis choked out. Talking was hard, but he could get that out.

“Sorr--you’re _sorry_?” Harry asked incredulously. His hands were steady on Louis’ knees, but his long fingers had wrapped down and around, and it was lovely. Funny, how stupid bodies could be, how all of Louis’ chemistry could be telling him that everything was getting better every time Harry touched him, while the reality was so much worse.

“Yeah,” Louis said, putting his own still-cold hand on top of Harry’s, looking at his own lap. Louis didn’t even know whether he was doing it to comfort Harry, or because of the unbearable ache of deprivation, or in apology. They’d used to do that, hadn’t they, like it was nothing, back in the day. Harry would swing Louis’ hand through hotel hallways, Louis would loop an arm around Harry’s waist, before Louis realized what it was starting to mean to him and the impossibility of it.

Harry huffed out a frustrated breath. Louis glanced up at that to give him a tiny, half-smile, because Louis felt frustrated too, only all the time, and so much more than Harry could ever know. Harry didn’t look disgusted, though, looked like emotion, but Louis couldn’t tell what kind. Louis felt another wave of nausea and the great big wobbliness of the world. Harry looped one big index finger over Louis’ and left it there.

“Ok, no, ok, don’t try to talk more than you have to, right now. Just, listen.” Harry stopped and wrinkled his brows, like he was caught between wanting to say something urgent and say it right. Louis was genuinely concerned that if this speech took much longer, he was going to pitch face-first into Harry’s chest without preamble. Everything in his body was chanting _Harry Harry Harry_ and his body didn’t care about long-term, complicated, delicately-balanced friendships gone sour in the heat of worldwide fame and the pressure of success and Louis’ inability to handle any of it.

“I want you to stay, tonight,” Harry said. “But also, you don’t have to. Either way, I’m gonna make sure you’re ok. I know that you must feel terrible right now, but you’re gonna be ok. I can send you home with a driver, and some meds, and that’s great. But, but actually. I don’t want you to go. I think you should stay with me. If you want to.”

Harry had started in his usual slow cadence but by the end, the words were tumbling out. Louis couldn’t even be sure that he’d heard Harry correctly because, _what?_ And didn’t Harry have a party to get back to? And why was Louis here, then, if not for Harry to finally blow up at him and then send him home with a bag of wet clothes? And then, to make matters worse, Harry drew in a shuddering breath, pressed his forehead against Louis’, and raised a hand to cradle the back of Louis’ head, fingers in his hair.

“Everything else, whatever you’re _sorry_ for,” Harry said, “We can figure out later. Just stay. Do you want to?”

“I want to,” Louis said, the most honest thing he’d said in months. Here they were. Even if Harry hated him later, even if he hated himself, he couldn’t stop it now, not now that he’d opened the gates.

And then _,_ Louis didn’t have room to worry, because Harry was pulling him close and nudging Louis to lie lengthwise on the couch. Harry slid his hand down Louis’ side, caught it against the strip of skin above the hem of his sweatpants, and followed him down. Harry pressed his whole body fully against Louis, held him against the back of the couch, and Louis made another embarrassing noise but he was distracted from it by worrying his face deeper into Harry’s chest. Somewhere below the waist, Harry had thrown a leg over Louis’ thigh and used it to slot the smaller boy neatly between his legs.

It was gorgeous, is what it was. Louis felt his skin prickling like coming in from a freezing snowstorm to a roaring fire that licked down his whole body and left peacefulness in its wake. Harry always had a pull, was always magnetic, but _this_ … Harry had gathered up a handful of Louis’ hair and was letting the tips of his long fingers roll in it and it almost made Louis cry, he was so gone for it. At least Harry was inches taller than Louis, and his eyes were all the way up at the arm of the couch. Small blessings. The dizziness was giving way to a dark, velvety scrim on Louis’ perception that felt solid, and safe, and every single last nerve he had was reverberating, _Alpha._

“Got you,” Harry said, and Louis could feel his throat and the small movements of his pelvis as they sank into the couch, “Got you,” Louis felt the strength of Harry’s deceptively lean, bare arms in the thin tank top and made a manful effort to not nuzzle into them like a maniac, but maybe he failed a little bit. “Got you,” Harry said, stroking down Louis’ side again and again like he would never get tired of it, or of Louis. And finally, finally, Louis dropped.

*

Louis came up with no effort, like waking up. Usually coming up involved running a mental gamut through his body, struggling up through muscles that were too slow and heavy, putting himself back together like lego. This time, he stepped out of hazy omega space to full consciousness between one breath and the next. Louis knew that he’d been well and truly gone, knew it was the middle of the night and he wasn't home, but he couldn’t remember feeling anxious about it, and that was novel too.

They were watching tv, or at least, Harry was watching tv and Louis was watching Harry watch tv. Louis vaguely noted that it was _Sleepless in Seattle_ which he hadn't ever seen, but Harry had once rambled about the Meg Ryan canon and how much simpler life must have been when people listened to the radio and couldn't text from the top of the Empire State building, so Louis thought he had the gist, probably.

 _Harry._ Harry had navigated himself to Louis’ back at some point, was spooning Louis and propping his head up on a pillow and watching tv and every bit of Louis was up against Harry, cuddled back into his body in the most betraying way possible. Harry's arm was thrown over Louis as if to hold him in from the edge of the couch, thumb idly stroking the dip where Louis’ ribs fell away from the soft skin of his side. Harry was here, existing, and Louis was in his bedroom, and they were watching a rom-com, and Louis had just come up from omega space after an ill-advised evening that involved….Harry’s pool?

Louis flung himself off the couch. Maybe there were other viable options, but none presented themselves. He face-planted, which was humiliating under the best of circumstances, but nothing compared to the memory that was coming into focus. There were too-long sweatpants hanging off his feet and now he had a carpet burn on his chin, too.

“Oh,” Harry said, “I was wondering when you’d freak out.”

He was still there, and he was still beautiful, and apparently fully blacking out on top of Harry Styles’ body did nothing to diminish its attractiveness, and Louis felt the unfairness of this in a way that he would examine later, in detail, with a new bottle of vodka.

“Who’s freaking out,” Louis said, scooting backwards on the floor to get a little bit further away from the way that Harry _smelled._

Harry stretched his long arms to the ceiling, rolled his wrists and popped the joints. Louis realized that the indentation in the couch was Louis-shaped, as were the wrinkles in Harry's shirt, and that maybe there was even an imprint on Harry’s arm that matched Louis’ jawline, and he added those small heart attacks to the future vodka session.

“You, as always,” Harry said, yawning, “but you can come back to the couch, if you like?”

“Mm,” Louis said weakly, “Yes, ah,” and stayed on the floor.

Harry yawned again, hit pause on the movie, and rolled himself onto the floor.

“How are you feeling?” Harry asked, folding his hands and sitting on them, vibrant green eyes far too sharp for whatever o’clock it was, Louis had no idea. It was dark outside of the bedroom windows, and the house seemed hushed and dark.

“Um,” Louis said, _god,_ he wasn't usually an _idiot_ post-omega space, although to be fair there wasn't typically anyone around to verify this against. Louis settled into a comparatively dignified sitting position and ignored the way Harry's waffle shirt sleeves fell all the way over his hands.

“I feel...a lot better,” Louis said cautiously. He did, he felt amazing, even though it was the middle of the night and he should have a hangover and he’d pretty much spilled all of his guts in front of his--in front of Harry. Then he glared at Harry, because anger was the only safe emotion that Louis knew, and he still felt unrecognizably soft, and small.

“So what,” Louis snapped, “Can’t you just _feel_ how I'm feeling?”

Harry arched an eyebrow and had the indecency to look amused. “A little,” he said, and then quickly, shifting on his hands, “Not exactly quiet though, are you?”

Louis glared some more.

“Can you feel how I'm feeling?” Harry asked, reasonably. Louis shrugged, and kept glaring, but surreptitiously pulled at the air. He felt a horrible desire to crawl into Harry's lap and grab his face and never let go, but that wasn’t exactly new. Thankfully he no longer felt like he was broadcasting like a crazy as fuck omega, shearing emotions out to anyone who would listen. What the fuck had he been thinking, letting himself drop?

“Let’s get food,” Harry said, rolling himself up from the floor and walking towards the kitchen. Louis trailed behind.

By the time they'd gone down the two flights of curved white staircase (Louis slid his sleeve down the banister and picked up a nice lint trail, which made him feel better somehow), Louis had a plan. Yeah, the drop was bad. Yeah, Harry might have picked up on more of Louis’ vulnerabilities than he wanted. But so far Harry hadn’t said anything about it and maybe, _maybe,_ Louis could grab a ride home and down a few sleeping pills and sleep for the next forty-eight hours and when he woke up, Harry would have forgotten about the whole thing. It was likely, Louis reassured himself as they walked into the kitchen, Harry probably had people sleeping on his couch, up against him all the time, every time he had a party.

Harry pulled a thick sourdough loaf out of the cupboard and turned on the broiler. He hummed a little bit, contentedly, pulling out a couple of avocados from the fridge and grinding salt in a tall, white salt shaker. A lot of things in this house were white, everything full of light, nothing to hide. Like Harry.

“Damn,” Louis said, “You really have become a Californian.”

Louis’ reflexes were a little slow, post-omega space, so the avocado Harry flipped his way hit him in the chest and rolled the floor. Harry nearly fell over, he was laughing so hard.

“Jesus,” Louis said, clutching his chest, “I thought Californians cared about the environment and not wasting food and shit.”

“Tastes better when it's smashed,” Harry said, picking the avocado up off the floor and _winking_ at Louis. “You love avocado toast. I saw you eat three orders at brunch last month.”

“I was hungover,” Louis said, sniffing, “I would have eaten three orders of anything.”

“Well, then,” Harry said, sweeping his arm around to say, _point made._

They sat down around the small, surprisingly cozy kitchen table and Louis contemplated the toast, which Harry had garnished with a little cayenne pepper. Louis could handle this, just a strange midnight breakfast with Harry Styles, just the two of them together for the first time in months. Louis didn't usually feel hungry after space either but this time he was starving. The kitchen clock said it was four-thirty in the morning, and there were stacks of plastic cups around for the housekeeping staff to get to in a few hours.

He’d almost convinced himself that Harry had somehow missed the whole “Louis dropped as soon as you held him like some kind of freak” thing (it _was_ Harry, Harry was still surprised every time a fan asked him to marry her, Harry wondered out loud in the same day whether he should buy a tiny island and whether the new Gucci blazer was overpriced, Harry never, ever mentioned status even when interviewers asked snide, voyeuristic questions about _stamina_ and _keeping up the pace)_ , when Harry put down his fork and said, “Are we gonna talk about it?”

“Ok,” Louis said, “Yeah, ok. Um.”

“I’m really sorry,” he told the toast. “I should never have come out tonight and put--and put you in that, in that situation,”

“Oh it was a huge imposition,” Harry said, sounding annoyed, “Having to bring you to my bedroom for a nice cuddle.”

“I’m sorry I’m not _nice,”_ Louis said, and even that was a snarl, because it was the only way he knew how even when he was trying to apologize, dammit. He clenched his hand around the fork, pushed his chair away from the table and wondered if he had his driver's number on his phone and where the fuck his phone was. In his pants, probably, soaking into Harry's carpet, third phone this year.

“But you probably should've known that by now,” Louis said, starting the whole awful process of leaving. He didn’t need to stay for this. He already knew the ending.

" _N_ _o_ ,” Harry said, putting his fork down, and Louis had to fight the urge to shrink down because Harry was genuinely, actually, _growling,_ an edge rarely seen in One Direction's mellowest alpha. Louis didn’t know if he’d _ever_ heard Harry’s voice with alpha in it. It scraped over his nerves and he jerked his head down a little before he pulled it back up, eyes blazing.

Harry was out of his chair and around the table, too close.

“No, I'm sick of this,” Harry said, no longer using voice but still in a tone that Louis didn’t know what to do with, “I'm not going to go in circles with you again while you pretend there's something wrong with you. Why, Louis? Why are you so sure that I think there's something _wrong with you?”_

Louis had bundled into a ball on the chair without even realizing it, knees to chest and heels up on the edge, pressed in on himself. He glared at his hands, at the shirtsleeves surrounding him with Harry's comforting, devastating, unraveling smell.

“That’s not what I meant,” Harry said, quieter now like he was intentionally trying not to scare Louis, but no less fierce. “I think that _you_ think there is something wrong with you, and I've only just realized how much work you put in to convince everybody else of that.”

“Great, so now I'm crazy too,” Louis said, still glaring at his own hands and feeling the burn in his cheeks. This was feeling confusingly less like a fight, which frankly was Louis’ area of expertise, and more like Harry reaching into his chest and surgically removing his heart. Louis hated everything and he also wanted to push Harry down on the floor and keep him there.

“If you want to go, you can go,” Harry said, “But I’m not going to let you push me away just because you think you deserve it. When was the last time that you even let somebody touch you? Why would you ignore that when you know how important it is?”

“It’s none of your _business,”_ Louis hissed, but Harry raised his arms to the ceiling and had the audacity to snort, mockingly, in the back of his throat.

“You know what,” Harry said. “I know I’ve let that work on me for a long time, but I’m tired. I’m tired of you refusing to talk about this, refusing to talk to _me_ . I’m tired of acting like it doesn’t bother me. Aren’t you? Louis, you _dropped. With me._ You can’t just keep acting like I don’t matter. I _know_ it means something, I felt it.”

“That’s not--” Louis said, and stopped, because this was confusing, and it wasn’t how Harry was supposed to be feeling, and he didn’t know how any of this fit into the plan.

“I can’t believe I missed it--” Harry paced, still growly and tall and confrontational and Louis’ whole body ached for him, wanted to slither onto the ground and show his neck and plead for understanding. Unbidden, a high, rising whimper came out of his mouth. _Fuck._

“Lou,” Harry murmured, suddenly an inch away from Louis’ body and holding steady, “I really want to touch you again. I need to know what you want.”

“Not in depri anymore, Hazza,” Louis said, a little choked, a little dizzy with longing, “You don't _have_ to.”

“I want to touch you all the time,” Harry said, “Always have.”

“So fucking do it, Harry,” Louis said, and it sounded like a plea.

Harry was looking at him through dark lashes, immobile and so, so close but not moving. Louis felt a rushing sensation in his head, like he was about to break something that was incredibly precious. But at the same time, there was an inevitability to this that had finally caught up to him, was reaching through all the walls he'd thrown up to work out a kind of destiny. Maybe it had always been Harry, his best friend and his worst fear. Maybe it was always going to lead up to Harry, standing here, giving him the chance. Maybe Louis wasn’t a lot of things he should be, but he could be brave.

Louis reached out into space, into the dark, into the fear, and he grabbed Harry's shirt and propelled himself forward and up out of the chair, and then he was kissing Harry.

Harry was hesitant and gentle, barely moving at first, but Louis wasn't. He was desperate and on fire, grabbing blindly at Harry everywhere that he could, and Harry caught up. Harry kissed so well, of course, and he opened his mouth against Louis’ with pure, unabashed enjoyment, and then licked into it. He tasted a little bit like avocado, and a lot like warm, musky vanilla, and like something that was years of familiarity in tight tour buses and sweaty backstages, but shot through with a new depth that made Louis feel weak at the base of his spine. Harry cradled Louis’ head between both his hands and bent him backwards. Louis stood up on his toes to stay level with Harry’s height and felt his back arch, an uncontrollable twist in his hips as Harry put a hand there, stroking his sharp hip bone through the soft sweatpants.

Underneath it all there was a fearsome intensity fueled by conflict. Louis felt, at the same time, the deep and awful vulnerability of dropping with Harry, the anger and frustration that they hadn’t really resolved, that had finally broken through all their pretending. Barrier broken, and neither of them could stop it. Louis felt heat curl in the pit of his stomach as Harry stepped forward and kept stepping forward, unabashedly pressing his thigh to Louis’ front and turning in small, torturous movements where it found his hard cock.

“You're so beautiful,” Harry said, holding Louis in place, kissing his neck, nipping harshly at the places that were showing morning stubble. Louis couldn't help the way he sighed, the way his eyes fluttered shut and the way he opened his neck submissively, but Harry didn't seem to mind.

“Is this really,” Louis said, dropping his hands from Harry's face and shoulders and trailing his fingers up his thighs. He curved them around Harry's excellent ass and lost the rest of the sentence.

“Really is,” Harry agreed, and his hands had gone up under Louis’ shirt and then down past the band of the loose sweatpants, peeling them down.

“Um,” Louis said, or gasped really, because his breath was coming in smaller and shorter bursts, and Harry stilled instantly.

“No, I mean yes,” Louis said, and he crooked his fingertips into Harry's tight jeans as far as he could which wasn't nearly far enough. “Just, also,”

“Ah,” Harry said, looking very _Harry_ as he stepped back, shimmied fluidly out of his jeans and cocked a hip out in his boxer briefs, sweeping his eyes over Louis.

“Get the fuck back here,” Louis demanded. Harry's skin was the best thing Louis had ever felt except that there were also his hands, huge and cradling and dextrous, except that there were also his thighs, warm and strong and tangling up with Louis.

“God,” Harry said, picking Louis up and seating him on the edge of the table, “I've been holding back for _so long_ ,”

“Like hell,” Louis said, and then he interrupted himself with a moan as Harry kissed up the inside of his thigh, wrapped one hand around Louis’ wrist and slid the other down the v-line of his pelvis to his cock. Louis was hard and slick and wet and moaning, and he hooked his heels up and around Harry's torso and squeezed just to get a little closer.

“What do you mean,” Harry said conversationally, sliding down to the floor, licking up Louis’ inner thigh and getting a hand on his lower back, caressing in tender little flicks. Louis hadn't even _known_ you could feel this way about somebody else's body, like you were reduced to a collection of nerve cells and instinctive, grasping _want,_ like touching Harry was breaking the surface of the pool and taking that first, saving breath.

“I, what?” Louis said, tight grip on the edge of the table to keep himself from burying his fingers in Harry's hair.

Harry was terribly and awfully close to going down on Louis and his pupils were blown and Louis felt like he might die so of course Harry stopped, looked up at him.

“I said what do you mean,” Harry said, sliding his hand from Louis’ back to the cleft of his ass, careful and conscious, “‘ _Like hell?’”_

 _“_ Can we have this conversation, uh, later?” Louis asked hopefully. Harry gave him a smile Louis had seen only a few times before--at an awards show where the announcer had made an ill-advised crack about the band, and late at night looking up at Louis from the floor of the bus when they were all dangerously sleep deprived: feral and knowing. Harry slid two of his long fingers deeper, kissed Louis’ hipbone, and slid his tongue out along the ridge of it, horribly slow.

“I’ve been trying to get you to talk for...two years,” Harry said, “And I’ve only just now figured out how.”

Louis gave up and grabbed Harry’s hair. He deserved it.

“Fine, you fucking sadist,” Louis said, voice accidentally shaky and trembling. Harry was so close and he was so warm and so everything _._ “I’ll try, I meant, like hell you’re the one who’s been holding back, I’m the one who’s always wanted it, I’m the one who’s just, who can’t... _I’m_ the one who wants _you_.”

Harry surged up and kissed Louis deeply on the mouth, squeezed him with such tenderness that it put tears in Louis’ eyes _again,_ for the fact that this everything he'd ever lain awake imagining, and that it was real, and now, he was going to have to survive once it wasn't.

“Maybe I can change your mind,” Harry said simply, and he swallowed Louis down with ease. Louis felt like stars were pressing behind his eyeballs. Harry traced the length of his shaft with his tongue, sucked firmly and compellingly. He’d moved his hands back to hold Louis’ hips in his big hands, for which Louis had a momentary flash of loss and a secondary flash of relief, because it was all very fast and wonderful but Louis wasn’t totally ready to confront _that_ unknown. Louis jerked his hips under Harry’s grip and yanked uncontrollably at Harry’s hair, but it only seemed to provoke more enthusiasm. Harry applied pressure, just right, and he gave head with rhythm, like every motion was finely tuned and fully enjoyed, like he loved everything about it.

“Oh my god,” Louis said, and came.

After, Louis didn’t have time to collapse off the table because Harry anticipated the limp-boned, floppy wash of weakness that swept over him and he was already there, pulling Louis off the edge and cradling him on the floor. Louis had never had sex after omega space, but he guessed this was what people raved about, this intensity and this single-minded focus. He gave Harry exactly forty seconds of self-satisfied alpha cuddling before pushing himself up and straddling Harry’s waist, yanking down his boxer briefs. Harry was loud, which was satisfying, and _big,_ which raised intimidating possibilities that Louis put firmly out of his mind, and hard, which was perfection. Louis slid his mouth down Harry’s shaft, working with a hand and his tongue and shamelessly writhing with his hips wherever he could. Harry threw his head back onto the kitchen tiles, arched his back on the kitchen floor, and came hard and long. Louis sat back on his heels and admired his handiwork. No matter what else happened, Harry Styles naked underneath you is a life-defining sight, and he was duty-bound to cement it in his memory for all time.

 

*

 

Louis had two whole flights of stairs to consider and panic over what had just happened and, more importantly, what was going to happen tomorrow. Harry let them get a flight and a half up to the bedroom before turning sideways on the stair and slipping his hand in between Louis’ waist and his arm, pushing Louis up against the bannister and kissing him.

“Stop freaking out,” Harry said against Louis’ mouth, holding onto the railing with his hand and squeezing Louis gently in the narrow gap between his body and the bannister.

“You keep pushing me into stuff,” Louis complained, while he scrabbled for a hold on Harry’s arms and pressed his hips up and harder against Harry’s. He was pretty sure they were both exhausted and needed sleep but also, well, apparently they had years to catch up on.

“Because you get a little calmer that way,” Harry said, biting softly at Louis’ ear. Louis snorted.

“It’s not a clever top-secret alpha strategy if you tell me about it,” he said, with dignity. Harry shrugged, released his hold, and took Louis’ hand again.

“Everybody likes a little compression,” Harry said, “And I like telling you what you like. One of us has to keep track.”

When Harry fell into the massive bed, yawning hugely, he waited until Louis settled on his back and then flopped his head into a comfortable spot in the crook of Louis’ shoulder and chest. Louis pushed Harry's hair carefully out of his face, shuffled his feet to stick out of the comforter, and fell asleep without moving another inch.


	3. Chapter 3

Morning came and went, and it was after noon when Louis woke up. Everything was beautiful. Harry’s bedroom curtains filtered the light in a grey-blue haze and something from outside the window sent little pieces of dappled sunlight to the ceiling--maybe a hanging ornament, Harry always loved that kitschy shit.

Louis carefully considered the possibility that last night had been a very elaborate dream, but decided that it was too detailed and that he felt too good for someone who’d had a psychotic break, and not even his fantasies had dared imagine Harry saying things like _I want to touch you all the time._  Reality it was, then: he turned his face slightly to the right and there was Harry, tousled and yawning and about an inch away.

“Heya, Lou,” Harry said, and Louis was about to sit up in bed and pretend like he knew what he was doing there, when Harry rolled on top of him and kissed his face, so apparently that was still a thing. _Louis_ was still wearing Harry’s sweatpants and shirt, because Louis was not a savage, but Harry was absolutely naked and absolutely comfortable. Louis had never understood that about Harry, but at least now he could benefit from it.

“Want the shower?” Harry mumbled, when they came up for air.

“God, yeah,” Louis said, his voice coming out in a bit of a croak. Harry’s eyes wrinkled with his smile, Louis had always noticed but had never quite seen it from such a good angle. Louis felt pretty great for someone who should be hungover, but also like he might stink a bit of vodka and chlorine.

In the obscenely large shower (pink tiles covered with purple jacaranda blooms in watercolor, which may have meant that this mansion was the product of absurd taste further in the past than Louis thought, but may have simply meant that Californians were still living in the sixties), Louis used quantities of Harry’s fancy conditioner, scrubbed more thoroughly than he usually did, thought about the previous night, and scrubbed down even more thoroughly.

Harry had left a travel toothbrush, still in a wrapper, a folded towel and a fresh pair of sweatpants on the bathroom sink. No shirt, Louis noticed, and he stalked back into the bedroom with his arms folded. Harry had conceded to boxers and was sitting on the couch, picking at a guitar that Louis didn’t recognize. Louis had a flash of images: dropping on that couch, Harry holding the world together for him, the first time he’d ever dropped with an alpha, _fuck._ He folded his arms more tightly and geared up for the weirdness of the morning, now, the tax he had to pay for breaking down all the gates last night, Harry’s slow and careful suggestion that he should really go home now. Louis took a deep breath and wondered what combination of words could show his casual _oh just fine_ -ness, the least needy omega that had ever existed.

“What do you want to do today?” Harry asked. Louis blinked.

“Today?” He asked, stupidly. Harry laid the guitar aside, and opened his arms.

“Come on!” Harry said, “Or did we not make any progress in Louis knowing what he likes, last night?”

Louis flushed, but he couldn’t help the stupid, shit-eating grin that spread its way across his face. “Could call a ride, get out of your hair,” he said carefully, just to check, properly un-needy. Harry rolled his eyes.

“At first I figured you might want a little space this morning, but then I decided that was a stupid idea because you would talk yourself into some strange version of last night that isn’t true. Also, you’re still post-space, and if it feels to you anything like it feels to me, it feels like we should spend today together, and by should, I mean I start to feel a little bit panicky when I think about you leaving. And I want to eat your face? So,” Harry concluded, gesturing _come here_ aggressively with his fingers, “Do you want to hang out today, Lou?”

“Yeah, could do,” Louis said, fitting himself between Harry’s arm and the neck of the guitar.

“Could do a brunch and tea, yeah? Maybe you could find me a shirt?”

“Maybe,” Harry drawled, ghosting his fingertips down Louis’ shoulder blade, getting his nose into Louis’ loose, wet hair. Incorrigible. “I guess if you have to wear clothes, it’s best that you wear my clothes.”

“Are you feeling possessive?” Louis asked, interfering with the chords by plinking a few strings, curious and apprehensive at the same time. There were just going to be a whole lot of emotions at once now, weren’t there. Louis sighed.

“Hah,” Harry said, “I’ve felt possessive since I met you, you’ve just never noticed. I’ve got eggs and tea, then let’s watch _Sleepless in Seattle._ You’ve never seen it. So many movies you've gotta see now, Lou.”

 

*

 

Harry was unfairly full of energy and ran down to the kitchen to start breakfast while Louis helped himself to several korean-language moisturizers and browsed Harry’s wardrobe for a shirt. After rejecting all options that were sheer, a strange texture, or had flowers, Louis grabbed the first monochrome tshirt he could find. It hung off his collarbone a little bit, and at what point exactly had Harry’s shoulders added those inches? The memory of those muscles flexing against Louis’ thighs made him halt in his steps. Maybe Harry was right, maybe Louis did need a little space; the whole world had changed awfully quickly. From downstairs, he heard rattling cutlery and Harry’s low, raspy morning voice singing the hook from their last album’s solo. Louis took a deep breath and headed downstairs.

En route to the kitchen Louis found himself in front of the white living room piano and without thinking about it, sat down and got lost in the last three songs they’d been working on in studio. Two of them were fairly well set already, but the third had been rattling in the back of Louis’ head with a hole in it that was just now taking shape. He rolled through the bridge, flipped the third and the second verse and played it out again, but it just wasn’t right. Louis shook the fringe out of his face and stripped it, dropping the bass line entirely and just picking out the melody with both hands. What was missing?

Hearing it on piano always helped. He hadn’t gotten around to getting a piano in his flat, just a small place near the studio for the summer, and it still felt empty, and if Louis was honest, a little claustrophobic. Louis was writing more than usual on this album, and he’d been feeling the pressure of it, like the LA sunshine and heat were stifling instead of relaxing. Today, though, the music felt easier. Harry’s house had good acoustics--Louis hadn’t realized that, but empty of people, the piano sounded clear and level, melody floating up to the high ceiling. Louis tilted his head to the side and thought about last night, then added some color to the harmonies and tried to stop thinking so damn hard. Unbidden he thought about Harry’s jazz from poolside and the way it had muffled and distorted underwater. He tried merging it with the melody, syncopating the chorus and changing out the bridge for a stylized version of the main theme in the old jazz song.

 _That’s it,_ Louis thought, maybe they needed some piano on the track to replicate it, maybe he’d turn the bridge into a guitar riff, but something about the addition satisfied the song, heightened the impact and made it sound like it was in dialogue with something. The syncopation added a bit of banter and lightness to the melody and it felt more open, more free.

Louis played the whole new version through again before he felt eyes and glanced over his shoulder. Harry was leaning in the doorframe, a cup of tea in one hand and the other folded comfortably into the crook of his opposite elbow. He'd thrown on an unbuttoned white collared shirt with the sleeves rolled up to the elbow, California-tanned forearms on full display. He looked like he’d been there a while, and his face was soft and unspeakably fond.

“Damn,” Louis said, looking at the tea and playing a random, nervous arpeggio, “We were doing tea, got a little carried away…”

Harry set his cup down on the floor. Louis made a surprised, gasping noise as Harry grabbed both of Louis’ hands in one of his own and held them down, hitting a few piano keys. Harry wrapped his other arm around Louis’ chest and pinned him between Harry’s body and the piano, kicking the bench out of the way. Louis had never thought of Harry as graceful, given his tendency to trip over his own limbs, but Louis obviously didn't know shit. He felt Harry’s body heat radiating through the soft, loose sweatpants he was wearing. Louis was never going to wear anything but sweatpants again. Harry’s hips spooned him into the keyboard in a way that cut against his thighs, but it was just tight enough to feel a little trapped, not hurt. Harry maneuvered his hand to Louis’ neck, held it easily with one big hand until Louis was pressing the side of his head into Harry’s cheek.

“Love it when you play piano,” Harry said, tugging at Louis’ hair, and Louis couldn’t stifle a small burbling laugh because Harry sounded so sincere even while he was pinning Louis in place and grinding his hips against Louis’ ass, holding him down. That was Harry, then, all sex and sincerity. Louis was so hard so fast that it almost hurt.

“I really do,” Harry said, and Louis could hear the smile in his voice.

“I bet,” Louis said, putting all the strength of his forearms toward getting out from Harry’s grip, but he couldn’t, and when the hell did Harry get so strong? Harry never flaunted it, like Liam or Zayn, but he’d pinned Louis like a butterfly, and Louis was not easily pinned.

Harry flexed his fingers on Louis’ neck, just a little. It was such a bit of show-off that Louis twisted his face around and bit Harry’s finger hard.

“Oh, are we there now?” Harry asked, delighted. Louis didn’t know what that meant so he licked the finger delicately, breathed in the smell of Harry’s hand, and then the world turned into something different as Harry bit down hard where Louis’ neck hit his shoulder.

It should have hurt but it didn’t, a light somewhere in the back of Louis’ brain clicking on, _oh._ He felt himself go limp in Harry’s arms, and shivery, but a trembling shiver that sent waves of good feeling through his nervous system. _Oh, ok._ His muscles spasmed, thrilling around the feeling instinctively, and Harry ran his teeth all down Louis’ shoulder. He licked in a broad stroke over the bite mark and Louis felt it fizzle and fade.

Louis fell a little bit, but in the most beautiful way, and everything was Harry’s tall, strong, warm body and his sharp, dominating teeth. Louis whimpered, and he didn’t even care. Harry bit him again, gently this time, but it felt like it was sinking through Louis’ muscles straight into his bones.

“Fuck,” Harry said, stopping too quickly and breaking away from Louis and turning him around in his arms, “Just, _fuck,”_ he kissed Louis, long and deep, and soothed all around his neck with his nose and mouth and hands. Louis sat back a little bit on the piano and his ass played a jumbled chord, and he laughed.

“What,” Harry said, voice breathy, “Are you ok? Is this ok? I just felt--”

“It’s ok,” Louis said, patting Harry’s arm, “It’s ok.” He grinned up at Harry and realized that he was a little loopy and shaky and trembling, that the biting had almost sent him slipping comfortably towards omega space. Which was interesting, because omega space was never something that Louis thought of as _comfortable._

Harry grinned back down at him. Louis thought that along with joy and sweetness, there was maybe something nervous in Harry's expression, in the careful way that his eyes checked Louis’ neck and shoulders. Louis felt a rush of protectiveness, like he would do just about anything in the world to keep that smile on Harry's face.

“I trust you,” Louis blurted, in lieu of saying something completely insane like _I love you._

“In that case,” Harry said, and he didn’t finish the sentence because he’d picked Louis up and thrown him over the piano bench, manhandling him neatly to his knees. Louis fell forward with Harry leaning over him, kissing into his neck and stroking up and down his legs. He trembled more, shivering into Harry’s hands.

“Touch me,” Louis said, all out of eloquence.

“Like I was gonna stop,” Harry said against his cheek. Louis hesitated and then, opened his nose and mouth and let himself really, truly breath deep, turning his face to the side and scenting Harry, nuzzling close. Harry held still, pinning Louis down to the piano bench, but holding his weight carefully above the smaller boy. Alpha pheromones flooded Louis’ senses, sending a flush across his cheeks and down his chest. It was calming and arousing all at once, and so, so intimate.

“Hey Lou,” Harry whispered, bringing his hand up the inside of Louis’ thigh, slipping his fingers against the fabric of the sweatpants and pressing against Louis’ entrance, slick and warm and wanting. Louis moaned, soft and helpless, and Harry kissed the tip of his nose. “I trust you too,” Harry said.

Louis rocked back against Harry’s hand, gyrated his hips until he found Harry’s cock, straining against the layers of clothing. He thought about all the times he’d made Harry’s face fall, the long path between now and the sweet boy he’d met long before they had to share a stage with the whole world. Louis felt tears prickling in the back of his eyes, god, like a spigot that couldn’t turn off again, he was.   

“I’m sorry, Hazza,” Louis said, quietly, into the piano bench. He knew this wasn’t the right place or the right time or the right way. He wasn’t sure if Harry even heard him, but Harry buried his face into the back of Louis’ neck and scented him right back. When Harry opened his eyes again, they were dark and blown and ravenous.

“Can I?” Harry asked, hands on Louis’ sweatpants. “Oh, please,” Louis said, dizzy from scent and arousal. Even just the friction of the fabric was driving him mad, and then Harry laid him bare. Louis felt goosebumps break out on his arms. He felt entirely at Harry’s mercy, and Harry looked like he knew it.

“It’s unbelievable, how beautiful you are,” Harry said, “I used to imagine, but, wow.”

He loosened his grip on Louis to pull his cock out of his boxers, so pretty in nothing but an unbuttoned shirt, wrapping his hand around it in a long, unself-conscious stroke. Louis couldn’t look away.

“What do you like?” Harry asked, looking at Louis with something terribly like awe. Louis shrugged, a monumental effort when the world’s hottest popstar is nearly on top of you, cock in hand.

“Come on,” Harry said, with some laughter in his voice, “Surely you have some ideas.”

“So many things,” Louis whispered to the bench. Harry licked his lips and met Louis’ eyes, looked puzzled for a second, and then thoughtful, like he’d just found a missing puzzle piece.

“Have you never…?” Harry asked, slowly. Louis nearly turned his face back into the bench but hey, here they were. He swallowed hard and looked up at Harry, no hiding.

“No, not like this, no,” Louis said, “Been busy, like,”

“Do you want to keep going?” Harry asked, “Do you want this?”

“With you, yeah, more than anything,” Louis said before Harry had even finished speaking.

Harry grabbed Louis gently around the waist and turned him, laying him out on the carpet on his back. He was unspeakably gentle, but Louis felt the building power in Harry’s touch that trembled against his self-control, and Louis wondered what it would take to loosen it. Louis’ breath left his chest in a gasp, and Harry was over him, between his legs and grinding their aching cocks together. Louis shuddered with sensation, all pins and needles and slick.

“Wow,” Harry said, reverently. “So much to find out, then,” and he thrust a long finger between Louis’ cheeks, stroking over his hole. Louis moaned, far past being able to hold it in. Harry circled the delicate skin and kissed all over Louis’ face, over his eyebrows and cheekbones and eyelids as his eyes fluttered shut. Louis felt his fingers dig and flex compulsively into Harry’s skin, palming at Harry’s gorgeous thigh muscles. Harry ran his teeth over Louis’ neck again, gave a couple of small bites that reduced Louis to shivers again. If this was all that omega crap, maybe it was actually ok. Maybe it was actually the best.

“You make my teeth ache,” Harry said wonderingly, like he was thinking about it too.

“You’re a weirdo,” Louis whispered. Harry laughed, quiet and secret, just for the two of them.

“Can I?” Harry whispered. “Please,” Louis answered, and Harry slipped a finger deep inside. Louis arched his back against it which had the added benefit of grinding their cocks harder together, and Harry grunted in response, sweat glowing on his forehead. Louis was torn between wanting to close his eyes because it was _too much_ and keep them open to memorize every inch of Harry’s beautiful, obscene face, lips open and red and panting, eyes wide and honest.

“You’re so fucking tight,” Harry said, “Obviously. You’re a control freak.”

“Says the person holding me down on the floor,” Louis ground out, barely managing around the breathy moans, but it was worth it for the look of delight on Harry’s face. Louis had produced that look twice this morning, and he made a mental note to do further testing.

Harry had him entirely surrounded, and then he added a second finger. Louis felt like he might be melting into the carpet, his hips thrusting uncontrollably and his muscles spasming with a burn that felt so good. He grasped for Harry’s cock, pumped it with little finesse, but Harry moaned appreciatively and kissed Louis on the mouth. Louis couldn't put his hands enough places, all over Harry's neck and face and chest and arms and cock. Harry dropped his body weight a little deeper, pressed Louis down. Louis had always shamefully and secretly loved their discrepancy, Harry’s easy alpha strength such a contrast with his own small, light frame. But for the first time, Louis realized that maybe Harry loved it too.

“What do you like?” Harry whispered, twisting his fingers inside of Louis, stroking his other hand down Louis’ stomach. They were both so hard that they could barely last, Louis could tell, his cock was already throbbing, but he felt deeply, viscerally empty, like the only thing that could hold him together was Harry filling every inch of him.

“Just, you, please,” Louis moaned, and his hair was sticking every which way and he could feel that his face was red, but the way Harry looked at him, it was like he’d never look away. Harry pulled his fingers out, bent Louis’ knees to position him, lined the head of his cock against Louis’ slick hole.

“Please,” Louis gasped again, and Harry hummed and thrust slowly forward, running one hand down Louis’ ribcage in a strangely soothing way. Louis felt Harry fuck into him, so deep and tender, trying to hold back even while he could tell that Harry was balancing on a knife’s edge of losing control. He wrapped his legs around Harry and thrust up, strong thigh muscles flexing.

“God,” Harry gasped, “God, you are perfect, Lou, I’ve always thought you were so perfect. Can’t believe I get to say it, finally.”

Louis reached out to kiss Harry, all the words he couldn’t say yet pressing into the kiss, hope blossoming in his chest that he would have time to figure them all out. Harry’s hips were snapping against Louis now, a vivid, aching rhythm that they played together. They kissed again and again, sloppy and lovely and fierce. Louis let his head fall back against the carpet, heedless of the noises he was making now, all sensation and disinhibition. In no time at all Louis cried out and held Harry around the torso as he came, great spurts between them. Harry followed just seconds after, and Louis held him so tightly that he left red, Louis-shaped streaks across Harry’s beautiful skin.

 

*

 

Two large omelettes and two pour-over coffees later (Harry didn’t even own a normal coffee pot, from which Louis derived a full fifteen minutes of high quality teasing), Louis was settled on the bedroom couch dutifully digesting Meg Ryan when he considered, for the first time in many hours, that there were other humans in the world besides the two of them.

“Hey, whatever happened to the party?” Louis asked, craning his neck around to look at Harry. “Don’t people usually camp out here forever at your parties? Obviously I always go home, like a civilized person, but I do see the tabloids.”

“Pay attention,” Harry instructed, and Louis turned back to the tv, but not before jabbing at Harry’s shin with the back of his heel. Harry chuckled, deep in his chest in a way that Louis found satisfying. He’d pulled Louis into his lap to watch tv and sip coffee at the same time, and Louis had decided that this was objectively the most comfortable way to watch tv in the world. Harry had drawn back the curtains, and there was a lovely breeze.

“Everybody left after we came up here, because I had Liam clear the party out,” Harry said, scratching absently at his cheek. “Zayn and Niall were obviously going to be useless, although actually, Zayn might have said something to me about you before dinner that I’m gonna have to ask him about later. I imagine they’re incredibly hungover today, though.”

“When?” Louis asked. “You were with me the whole time. Did you abandon me when I dropped? Are you a fucking asshole, Harry Styles?”

“Someday,” Harry said, pulling Louis in a little tighter, and kissing the back of his head, and Louis didn’t object because, let’s face it, that ship had sailed-- “Someday you will stop underestimating me, but until then, I’m happy to keep surprising you. I texted, _before_ you dropped, as soon as I knew.”

“Hmm,” Louis said, patting Harry’s cheek. “And what do you mean, you knew?”

Harry ducked his head a little, surprising Louis, that Harry could still be a little shy. He patted Harry again, more firmly.

“Just knew you were off the whole night,” Harry said, sounding a bit reluctant. “Felt like I was losing it, actually, didn't know what to do. Couldn’t wait to get everybody out of there. I knew you hated my parties usually anyway, but ugh, it was different.”

Louis gave Harry a look which he suspected was fond, maybe even sappy. “Don’t hate your parties, Hazza,” he said, “Just hated myself, a bit.”

Harry let out a long breath at that, but he was still quiet.

“Look,” Louis said, uncharacteristically slowly, “This is important. I, you know, I always thought that you knew, somehow.”

Harry gave him a quizzical look. Louis waved his hand vaguely towards the bed, the windows, as if somewhere out there was a summary of all the complexity of the last few years.

“Knew how I felt about you,” Louis said, his cheeks burning, but he persevered. Harry deserved it, and Louis would be damned if he wasn’t going to try to give Harry what he deserved. Better late than never. “I thought it was obvious. I thought, well, obviously, I had a lot of weird things in my head. I never thought I was good enough. I’ve been so worried about letting the band down. I’ve been so fucking _worried.”_

Harry leaned forward and touched his forehead gently into Louis’ cheek.

“I knew some of it,” he said, “But you’ve always leapt so far ahead of everybody else. You filled things in before I even knew what we were talking about. And I looked up to you, you know? You’ve always seemed so confident. It took me a long time to realize how much you kept to yourself, and the worry, you know, it's not helped by treating your body like crap? Let me help. I've always wanted that.”

Louis sighed. Bit by bit, he let his head drop back onto Harry’s waiting shoulder. Harry, bless him, didn’t say anything about it.

“That’s what I’m sorry for, really. For thinking I had to shut you out, for not trusting you,” Louis said. Harry turned his head and kissed the top of Louis’, and Louis let himself sigh again and nuzzle into Harry’s shoulder. Bit by bit.

“I trust you now,” Louis said. No, he _promised_.

“I love touching you,” Harry said, so, so tenderly. “I’m gonna just keep forcing all this affection bullshit on you until you admit how much you want it. And until you believe that _you can have it._ Everything is a work in progress, Lou, all of us.”

“As long as you make me breakfast after,” Louis said, testily, and Harry laughed.

"Not enough that I got you a piano?" He said. Louis wrinkled his brows at Harry, who just kept grinning. "Like I would buy a white grand just for myself, just got it so you would come over and play." 

Louis was torn between punching Harry and snogging him, so he chose both and for a few long minutes it was chaos. Properly worn out and properly entangled, they sat in silence, just being.

“You should get a therapist,” Harry said lightly, suddenly. Louis sucked in a breath that was prepared to be outrage when Harry continued, “I've had one for the last few years, and it's been really good.”

Louis lifted his head up to glare.

“I may actually die from overexposure. If I have you for a boyfriend _and_ I have to get a therapist? Nobody needs that many emotions.”

Harry was looking at him and beaming, so free and open and light that Louis felt like his heart might crack a few ribs, float out of his chest.

“Boyfriend, huh,” Harry said with entirely too much satisfaction. Louis looked up at the ceiling, but found no help there.

“My boyfriend needs to have a little help learning about this whole communication thing,” Harry said, snuggling deeper into the couch and bopping Louis on the nose. “Get a therapist. I have one. Zayn has one. You don’t get to be an international popstar and not have one.”

“Zayn has one?” Louis asked.

“Who doesn't have one?” Harry said. “Especially those of us who seem to attract the most bullshit status questions from the media about our relationships. With our _boyfriends.”_

“Huh,” Louis said. He'd never thought about it that way, like it was the sort of thing they were all handling together. But today was a new day.

“You’re going to be terrible now,” Louis observed.

“The worst,” Harry agreed. “The worst boyfriend.”

“Oh my god, I take it back,” Louis muttered.

 

*

 

“I promise he's fine,” Harry said to the phone, “Please chill, Liam, go take Z to brunch. Lou’s just staying here and we're having a day in. Two days, probably. A long weekend. Let's do a good studio session on Wednesday.”

Louis shifted on the poolside chair and Harry winked at him. Louis glared, but his dumb, betraying cheeks turned red anyway and Harry smirked. They’d been out at the pool for a good hour, Harry swimming laps and Louis mostly floating, when Liam had called in a bit of a panic after showing up at Louis’ apartment with a bag of takeout, only to find it empty. So maybe Liam was a little more perceptive than Louis had given him credit for. He did love his lads.

“He deserves the time off more than you lot,” Harry said, “Yeah, yeah. Tell Zayn thanks. Make sure Niall drinks some fucking water.”

Harry turned away from Louis, but Louis caught the edge of his face, splitting into a big grin. “Hm, maybe it did,” he said, “Guess you’ll have to wait and find out. We’ll catch you up.”

Louis put a little bit more sunscreen on his shoulders, and wriggled his toes contentedly in the sun. LA was the best. He couldn’t remember why he’d ever had a problem with it.

Harry had laid himself down on the chair by Louis’ when his cell rang again, and Harry answered it with a large, dramatic sigh to which Louis gave two thumbs up. Harry’s drama was getting better, but he still had a ways to go. Louis would coach him.

“Oh hi,” Harry said, in the tone that all professional musicians could instantly translate to mean management _._ Louis bit his bottom lip and felt a bit guilty. He was pretty sure that he’d planned and then completely forgotten about a good ten, twelve hours in the studio today, anticipating the need to recover from one of Harry’s parties. Ironic, that; whole different set of things to recover from. Harry had spent some time talking about _channeling anxiety into overwork,_ and then Louis had pushed him into the pool, and then Harry pulled him in after, and here they were.

“No, yeah, Louis is not coming in today, nah, he’s not free to talk,” Harry said smoothly, and somehow nicely, in that _Harry Styles_ way that always got what it wanted. No one could brush people off like Harry. Louis intended to take advantage.

“And actually,” Harry continued, “We're all gonna chat tomorrow about the schedule, I've checked in with the others and we feel like it's kinda loaded Louis down. He needs a bit of a break.”

“The thing is,” Louis said, watching Harry shake a wayward curl out of his face and arrange the towels _just so_ on the bright orange poolside table, “People think you’re so sweet, and gentle, and hippie, and artsy, and they entirely miss the wolf that you are.”

Harry looked up at that, up from underneath his eyebrows with a smirk that was half menacing and half flirtatious and entirely heart-melting. Louis wondered if repeated exposure would ever inoculate against being surprised by that face and decided probably not, as Harry launched himself gracefully forward and folded his arms effectively around Louis, caging him down on the long pool chair.

“The thing is,” Harry said, his face a purposeful inch away from Louis’, nose roaming just enough to tickle, hips moving in a way that promised things, “People think you’re so sharp, and loud, and pushy, and edgy, and they entirely miss the sweetheart that you are.”

“Ugh,” Louis groaned, loudly and with an eyeroll, but the groan was neatly cut off by Harry’s mouth, kissing him. And Louis supposed that if _somebody_ in the world had to know the truth, at least it was Harry.

 


End file.
